The Wren Page 2

  Molly swallowed past the lump in her throat, remembering the terror she had lived with in those early days. On the edge of her mind, the thought had loomed time and again that her own gruesome end was imminent.

  Matt appeared pushed to the edge, uncertainty clouding his features.

  “If what you’re saying is true,” he ground out, “then where’ve you been for the last ten years? It wasn’t unheard of for Comanches to barter their prisoners to the army in exchange for goods. I handled such exchanges myself several times.”

  “You did?” Had he been nearby during her captivity? Could he have somehow helped her? “Were you in the army?”

  “For a time.”

  “I don’t remember much contact with other white men. I wasn’t really kept prisoner. I was adopted into the lodge of a Comanche called Bull Runner and raised with his two daughters.”

  “How’d you get away?”

  “I was with them for eight winters before they left me with a trader in New Mexico.”

  “Which tribe were you with?”

  “The Kwahadi,” she answered.

  “They were always fairly remote. I never dealt directly with them.”

  So he wasn’t as close to her as she initially thought.

  “Why did they trade you after eight years?” he asked.

  “There was some confusion about an offer of marriage for me. Bull Runner’s eldest daughter was angry. He chose to return me to my people as a gesture of goodwill.”

  “Goodwill, my ass,” Matt said scornfully. “He held you hostage for eight years.”

  “Then, you believe me?”

  Her words hung in the air, unanswered. Rain pelted the roof, thunder boomed in the distance, and darkness wrapped around her like an old friend. Countless times she had huddled beneath the flap of a teepee with her Comanche sisters while a sudden storm caught the tribe off-guard.

  “Why didn’t you show up here two years ago?” he asked, apparently still doubting her.

  “The trader beat me,” she replied, her voice suddenly hoarse. “An old miner named Elijah took pity on me. He bought me and took me deep into Mexico.”

  A flash of lightning showed Matt’s jaw flexing. His hands rested indifferently on his hips, but there was nothing casual about his mood. She never remembered him like this.

  “Who was the trader?” he asked.

  “A comancheros named Jose Torres.”

  Matt swore fiercely under his breath.

  “Do you know him?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yeah. He’s a worthless piece of—,” he stopped, and took a deep breath. “Many captives, unfortunately, passed through his hands.”

  “When Elijah died a few months ago, I had no choice but to find my way back,” she added. “I didn’t do it before because I had no idea where I was.”

  “It took you two months to return to Texas?”

  “I stopped for a few weeks outside Albuquerque to help a friend. She accompanied me here.”

  “Where’s your friend now?”

  “We plan to meet tomorrow. Her name is Claire Waters. She was in bad shape when I found her.” It surprised Molly that she had found Claire at all, bruised and bloodied as she had been, lying at the bottom of one of a thousand arroyos in and around the foothills of the Sandia Mountains.

  Fatigue washed over Molly. The events of the day, of the last few weeks, were finally catching up with her. “We should make a fire.” She moved toward Matt to leave the room. He didn’t move. She could feel his eyes on her.

  Pausing beside him, she said, “Do you remember when I stumbled onto a rattlesnake hiding under a mesquite bush?” She kept her eyes forward. “I was ready to pop the thing with my slingshot, but you grabbed me before I could. You looked out for me that summer, more than anyone ever had.”

  Lifting her chin, she looked at him, wondering what the years had done to him. He appeared rough, angry, and jaded. He walked with a slight limp. Was he married? Did he have a house full of children? He’d been so good with her ten years ago—patient, tolerant, and amused by her antics. She knew he would be a good father.

  “I never thought I’d see you again, Matt.” An uncertain smile reached her lips.

  He simply watched her.

  Brushing past him, she left him alone to sort it all out in his own mind.

  Chapter Three

  Matt stood in the darkened room, heavy rainfall echoing around him, his own thoughts ricocheting in his head.

  Molly. Alive.

  It was incomprehensible. The woman was simply a very good liar. Perhaps she’d heard the story of Molly Hart and had taken it upon herself to swindle those closest to Molly’s family. But that made no sense. What motive could this woman possibly have? She couldn’t have known he would be here at the Hart’s abandoned ranch, today.

  He only came after a two-month long recovery under his mother’s tenacious care had left him discontent and in need of fresh air. Never mind that his soul was restless as well.

  For four months, he had been the prisoner of Augusto Cerillo—a Mexican bandito with a reputation for torture. Matt and the other Rangers in his band had tracked the man for two years, and Matt nearly had him. Almost. If his old army buddy, Nathan Blackmore, hadn’t gotten him out, he was certain he would’ve died in the hellhole Cerillo had created just for him. His body had healed, with only a slight limp from the damage to his right leg, but his spirit was taking more time to recover.

  Maybe that was why, after ten years, he’d finally decided to pay his respects to Molly’s gravesite.

  What if the woman really was Molly?

  Matt couldn’t even fathom what that would mean. Scratching his roughened cheeks, he noticed his hand shook.

  From the moment Molly Hart had died, Matt’s life had changed. Angry, he’d vowed to avenge her, somehow. He’d joined the U.S. Army, fighting during the relentless campaigns to eradicate the Comanche from Texas. When the Kwahadi—the last and most lethal of the Comanche tribes—had finally surrendered, going to the reservation in ‘75, he’d resigned from the army and joined the Rangers. The work was grittier, the pay less, the conditions often worse, but it fulfilled his objective—to remove those who sought to terrorize the innocent, those who thought nothing of killing defenseless men, women, and children.

  If Molly truly was alive, did that mean he’d fought the wrong battle all these years?

  He was nothing if not cynical, having seen far too much butchering to bring back the innocence of his youth. He would demand more proof from this woman. If she wasn’t Molly—and he had to believe she wasn’t—he would break her until she confessed.

  Matt moved through the house to find her. He paused at the threshold of a different bedroom. The woman—the imposter Molly—knelt before a fireplace. The flickering flames cast a glow of light that engulfed the room. As she swiveled on her booted heel and reached for something more to burn, Matt was struck by how young and vulnerable she appeared. At the same time, the firelight illuminated the outline of her breasts. High, round, nicely shaped. For a mere second, his mind dwelt on the sight, then he ruthlessly pushed it aside.

  Hell of a time to be attracted to a woman.

  Her hat was gone, revealing dark brown hair tied at the nape of her neck. Molly had dark hair. So did hundreds of other women, he reminded himself.

  “Since I doubt there’s anything dry to be found outside, I’m burning parts of a chair,” she said when she noticed him.

  “What name did you call your slingshot?”

  Sitting back against a nearby wall, she blew a tendril of hair from her face. “The Wren.”

  Could be just a lucky guess. “Why?”

  She didn’t appear worried, just tired. “Because I always believed all of the rocks I used were actually left by wrens.” Reaching behind her head, she pulled the cord that held her hair in place. She ran her fingers through the surprisingly short, wet mass and fixed him with an intent gaze.

  “Once,” she continued quietly, “
I told you that you’d be able to find me by following a trail I’d leave only for you, much the way a wren leaves a trail of rocks to its nest.”

  She certainly had intimate knowledge of his childhood conversations with Molly. Perhaps Molly hadn’t died immediately. Perhaps this woman had been with her, had spoken to her. Maybe she was the child she claimed was actually killed by the Comanche. She had lived and Molly had died.

  The lack of reasoning and logic didn’t escape him. He was trying his damnedest to deny this woman’s claim, but he could find nothing to contradict her. Embracing it, however, would shatter his world.

  “Why is your hair so short?” he asked.

  She touched the shoulder-length locks, a bit self-consciously. “When Elijah found me with the trader, I was in pretty bad shape. Wanting to keep any more trouble away, he told me to cut my hair and pretend I was a boy.”

  “And Elijah kept his hands off you?” For some reason the image bothered him.

  She smiled. “He was an old man. And while he wasn’t completely sane, he also had a goodness in his heart. He was more of a grandfather to me.”

  “Apparently not that much goodness if he kept you for two years.”

  “Well, his mind was ruled by the gold and the silver. It really is a sickness for some. I owed him for saving me from Torres, but once I was strong enough to leave him we were lost deep in the Sierra Madres. Before he died, though, he told me he’d help me return to Texas once his latest mining obsession played out. In the end, he intended to do right by me.”

  “So he up and died, and you headed here?”

  “Yes. Why is it so hard to believe it’s me?”

  The rush of emotion surprised him. He glanced down at his well-worn boots while clearing his throat. “I looked for Molly,” he said, “until I was so tired I couldn’t sit my horse.” Still standing in the doorway, he faced her across the room. “I won’t smear her memory just because you ride in from the south and proclaim yourself Molly risen from the dead.”

  With resignation she shook her head. “Then I think I’ll get some sleep. I’m too tired to continue, especially if you won’t believe anything I say.”

  Throwing a wet blanket on the hard floor, she lay down near the wall. Matt took up a post on the other side of the fireplace from her, to keep her in his sights. In case of what? He wasn’t sure. His instincts were in knots.

  She cushioned her head with her arm and focused her very blue eyes on him again. “Are you married, Matt?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have any children?”

  “No.”

  “How’re your folks, and your brother, Logan?”

  “Well enough, I suppose.”

  “That’s good.” She closed her eyes. “I thought of you so many times,” she added sleepily, then smiled, cracking an eye open. “I remember you said you were gonna marry yourself a fine society lady, all gussied-up and as smart as any man. It’s nice to know you got over it.”

  She shut her eyes again, and in no time her steady breathing signaled she slept.

  Matt noticed the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Molly had freckles. He noticed, too, the shape of her fingers where one hand lay nestled near her face. They were similar to Molly’s, not in any specific way, just familiar to him.

  He could see it now—the shadow of the child in the woman.

  Molly lived, right there before him, a miracle from out of the past, against the odds.

  Matt wasn’t a religious man. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel God played a hidden hand in His deck of destiny, and probably laughed while He did it.

  The woman across the room was a message—Matt’s life was not what it seemed. Everything he thought he believed about the world, and about his own world, was wrong.

  Molly lived.

  And with that revelation a breath of life swept through Matt’s soul. A nurturing, hopeful breath.

  Maybe life was worth living after all.

  Chapter Four

  Matt awoke with a start. Bright sunlight broke through two grimy windows, illuminating an empty room. Dust floated in the slanting rays, the air still heavy from misuse despite his presence with the woman during the night.

  Not just any woman.

  Molly.

  Standing, he shook off his grogginess and determinedly went outside. He saw her immediately, walking on a hillside not far from the house. He took a deep breath, relieved. A part of him thought she might have left.

  If she had departed, then it would have been obvious she was a fraud. Did that mean, since she stayed, she was who she claimed to be? Matt had no idea how to proceed. But his gut told him his life would never be the same from this moment forward.

  He positioned his hat to shield the sun from his eyes, then joined her on the hill. It was the very place where he’d left her that night ten years ago, the last time he’d seen her alive.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  She paced around, staring at the ground. “No, not really.” Resting hands on hips, she sighed. “You don’t happen to remember where I buried it, do you?”

  “What would that be?” he responded, still refusing to give her an inch.

  “My survival kit.” Squinting at him, she made a box with her hands.

  He stared at those hands, fascinated by the slender, feminine fingers, darkened from the sun.

  “Do you remember? I was burying it that night, the night of the attack. It was a metal box with, gosh, I don’t even remember everything I put in it now.”

  “Yeah,” he heard himself say, “I’m sure you don’t.” Was he really such an ass? He’d have to ask Nathan. He was the only one who’d give it to him straight.

  Waving him off, she turned away in disgust. “Go away, Matt. You’re really not much use here.”

  He blew out a breath, trying to summon some of the manners his mother had tried for years to instill in him and his brother. “Why don’t you try near the oak shrub?”

  She stared at him, then walked over to the scraggly bush. Grabbing a large rock, she began digging in the dirt. It was an eerie replay of the same night ten years ago.

  He had found her out here, having sneaked away from the party to bury her survival kit. Her pretty yellow dress had been smudged with dirt and her chestnut curls had hung loose from a matching ribbon as she’d hunched over the hole, digging away with a rock as she was now. She’d told him she was burying it in case of an Indian attack—the Comanche had always been an ever-present threat. But Molly’s mother had also feared the Kiowa to the north and even the Tonkawa to the south, and had instilled a bit of paranoia in her daughters.

  Matt knew, even then, that his pa and the other ranchers had gone to great lengths to co-exist peacefully with the Indians in the area, but he was never quite able to convince Molly she was safe. And in the end, she wasn’t.

  The knowledge twisted like a knife in his gut.

  The rock hit something solid.

  “I really didn’t think it would still be here.” She pulled the box free of its dirt home. Dusting the top clean, she carefully unhinged the lid and opened it.

  He knew what was inside, for she had shown him that night before burying it, but curiously he looked over her shoulder. A compass, an empty bottle for water, a knife, matches, and swatches of cloth in the event of an injury. She removed the old tattered slingshot resting on the bottom. “The Wren,” she murmured. Pushing the remaining contents around, she pulled out a folded slip of paper, then replaced the slingshot.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  She closed the box, tucking it under her arm, but kept the faded parchment in hand as she stood. “Just a letter I thought I should hide at the time.” She unfolded the missive and began reading as she walked back to the ranch house.

  He followed and she slammed into him when she suddenly turned back.

  With a serious expression on her face, she asked, “Did you ever find out who killed my folks?”

  “N
o.” It had been a hell of a time, for him, his ma, his pa, the ranch hands, as well as the surrounding landowners who all came to help search for Molly and the killers of Robert and Rosemary Hart. The suspects had somehow eluded them.

  “No clues at all?” she asked expectantly.

  “We trailed the men who attacked and took you,” he said, “but at the end, we found nothing.”

  “But when the Indians attacked, I know some of those men were killed.”

  “No bodies were ever found. Did you recognize who took you?”

  She shook her head, then hesitated.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You don’t even believe who I am. Why should I share my suspicions with you?”

  His gaze locked with her vibrantly blue eyes, and he knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, she was Molly Hart. The how or why of it he couldn’t reconcile, but as he looked at her now, under the bright azure Texan sky, he heard the whispers of the past—not just theirs, but thousands of years of lives struggling in this barren land—echoing through his heart and his mind, reminding him how he felt the day he thought he’d lost her.

  Molly’s body had been recovered and draped with a blanket where it lay on the ground before the group of men and boys who had searched for her. The remains had been brutally abused. Stunned, Matt had walked out of the valley where the Hart ranch stood, finally stopping at the crest of a hill to stare at the setting sun. The open Texas plains stretched as far as the eye could see; the sunset brought dark shadows and a high wind over the land.

  It was as if the blast of air blew right through him. His mind, his heart, his dreams—they were all encompassed in what was left of Molly.

  He opened his hand and stared at the gold cross resting on his callused fingers. The grief he struggled to ignore rushed over him, and the tension in his gut uncoiled so swiftly his legs gave out beneath him.